GOING HOME
by JennyLB
Summary: John wakes up in an alley on a cold winter night not remembering anything except the name Joan. He goes to Joan for help to heal from his injuries and remember who he is and what he does.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE: Friday, January 11, 2013, 11:31 p.m.**

John Reese lay unconscious in a dark New York alley. Garbage bins and debris were all around him. It was late at night, and the skies had let loose snow flurries and wind. It beat against him. His dark form blended into the background of the alley so he was not visible to passersby on the street up ahead. In his unconscious state, though, he began to feel the tiny flecks of ice as they landed on his exposed face and hands. His eyes then fluttered opened. Blood from a head wound had run down and dried over his right eye, making it more difficult for the lid to open.

He struggled against the nothingness in his mind.

As he lay there a few more minutes with the snow collecting on his face, he became cognizant that he needed to get up. He couldn't remember where he was as he struggled to sit up. He then realized he didn't know his name or why he was there. He was confused about the snow and the blood and the pain he felt all over his body.

The name Joan was all he could remember. I need to get to Joan, he thought.

His head throbbed, so he pulled his hand forward to reach up and touch where he could feel the pain originating. Several of his fingers shot pains throughout his hand as he jostled his fingers to feel the gash and dried blood on his head at the top of his hairline. Looking down at them, he noticed that his three of his fingers were misshapen and bruised. With his right hand, he reached up to touch the rest of his face to determine if there was further damage to his forehead or cheeks. The back of his head throbbed, so he pushed his hand backward. It was a lump the size of his palm. He then began pulling at his overcoat to see if there was blood anywhere else on his body. He discovered a hole and blood on his left side near his waist. It looked like a small bullet wound, but he couldn't remember getting shot.

"I need to get to Joan," he repeated. But he had no idea how to find her. He just knew that he needed to get back to her. Stumbling to his feet, his vision was blurred and spots of light fired in his eyesight. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other to get himself out of the dark alley. Holding onto the garbage bins and brick walls of the alley, he was finally able to emerge onto the street. His legs burned with pain.

The streetlamps blared into his eyes causing him to squint. He stood on the street looking around to try and determine where he was. The red light of a video camera attached to a streetlamp blinked. He thought nothing of it.

An intoxicated couple strolled toward him, each one hanging on the other for balance.

He stepped in front of their path. "Joan, do you know where I can find Joan?" he asked.

"Oh my God!" the female shrieked.

Her companion reached out and pushed John out of the way. "Drunken bum!" he slurred, "Get the hell out of our way!"

"I'm looking for Joan," John whispered. His close cropped hair was disheveled, and he had several days' worth of stubble growth on his face.

"Mister, we don't know no Joan," the female answered, her voice in a lower, calmer tone. "Are you okay?"

"Let's get out of here!" the girl's companion yelled. He jerked her by the arm before she could say anything else. As he pulled her away, she caught eyes with John and mouthed, "I'm sorry."

John stood silent and still. After they were several feet away, the boy turned around to see if the unkempt man was following them.

He wasn't.

John could see the lights twirling about in his head. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand much longer, so he stepped back and placed his back against the building and slid down. He could now feel the cold of the snow and wind as it beat against him. He closed his eyes, leaning the back of his head against the building. The video camera up on the lamppost continued to flash. Pulling his legs up to his chest, John felt cold. The snow was making his clothing wet, and he shivered.

The next thing he became aware of was a man down in his face. "Are you dead?" the man's gruff voice ricocheted off John.

It was still dark outside, so John wasn't aware how much time had passed. He then opened his eyes to look at whoever was talking to him. He could smell the man's rancid breath. "Who are you?" John asked.

"No one," the man answered.

John could see the rotten-toothed man looking at his overcoat. "You can't have it," John muttered through his chattering teeth.

"Whatever, man," the homeless man answered.

"Wait a minute," John interjected. "Do you know where I can find Joan?"

"Joan?" the man asked.

"Yes, Joan. She lives in a homeless encampment. I need to find her," John said.

"Who's asking?" the man asked.

Who do you think?" John answered.

"Man, I don't know you. If I don't know you, then Joan don't know you," the man said. He got up to leave, but John grabbed him by the arm.

"Please…I need to find Joan. We've gotten lost. She's the only one who can help me," John said.

"She ain't lost. You must mean you," the man said.

John nodded.

"What's it worth to you?" the man asked.

"What do you want?" John asked.

"Looks like you don't got nothing but that coat you're wearing," the man answered.

John looked down at his black wool overcoat. It was nice. Whoever he was, he had to have a decent job because this coat was certainly something that wouldn't be found at the Goodwill or Salvation Army. He looked at the rest of his clothing. Even though he was dirty, he wore a white dress shirt, black dress pants, and a matching suit jacket. He also had a watch and some decent leather boots.

He reached around to feel his back pocket for a wallet but felt nothing. Okay, so he had no idea who he was, but he was pretty certain that he wasn't homeless. He knew he just needed to find Joan. She could clear up all this for him. He took off his watch and held it up to the man. "Not my coat," he said.

"What the hell do I need to tell time for?" the man laughed. "I ain't got no job."

John eased his watch back on his left wrist, making sure not to brush it up against his injured fingers. "Take me to Joan, and I'll make it worth your while," John bargained.

"Alright. Come on man. Follow me," the man agreed. He began pulling a child's Radio Flyer wagon down the sidewalk. It was missing a wheel, and the scraping sound of the axel on the pavement unnerved John.

John struggled to get up and catch up to the man who was already pretty far down the sidewalk. He had no reason to trust or distrust this man, but currently his options were limited. The sparks of light continued to flash in his eyes. Each step caused shots of pain on his side and head, and John continued to grimace against the pain. When the man was out of eye sight, John would strain to hear the axel's scraping howling in the night. Then the man stopped up ahead and waited for John to catch up to him.

After what had to have been a twenty minute walk, the homeless man pointed to a dilapidated building inside a chain-linked fence down the street from where they were standing. "She's probably down there," he said. He paused and caught his breath, "Then go up in that building on the second floor. Man, you better be on the up-and-up."

"Are you screwing with me?" John asked. From his tone of voice, it was apparent he was in pain.

"Naw man. She's in there," the homeless man answered. "What's your name, man…so I can tell her you're coming," he asked.

"I can't remember," John answered.

"What? Are you…how did that happen?" the man asked.

"I can't remember," John answered. "I just need to get back to Joan so she can help me."

The man held up his finger again toward the building. "She's in there, man," he said in a low tone of voice.

John started walking forward. The homeless man stayed behind with his wagon. John figured that the man had decided that introductions weren't necessary and that John was too far gone to be of any real danger to anyone.

The homeless man watched John make his way down the street. After John was halfway down the street, he remembered that John was supposed to pay him for his efforts. He yelled at John's back, "Hey man…you were going to make it worth my while!"

John heard him but didn't answer. He could hear the man then yell, "Whatever, man. You owe me."

John continued to focus his attention on each step, trying to minimize the pain throughout his body. He felt like fire and ice simultaneously with the snow beating against his face that was now burning with fever.

After he reached the building and crawled through the fence, he made his way up the steps to the second floor. Tents of various sizes and conditions were pitched all over the second floor. He could smell what remained of fires in large metal containers. Mustering up his strength, John yelled, "Joan!"

Several soiled faces roused and emerged from the front of their tents sporadically throughout the room. "Joan! Please! I need your help!" John yelled again. He moved to stand in the middle of the room. There was no one immediately coming forward claiming to be Joan. John could feel his body giving away. He slid down so he wouldn't fall. In one last effort, he yelled, "Joan, please."

Several minutes later, John heard, "Is that you, John?" He wasn't sure how to answer. Maybe that was his name. He turned toward the voice. Then he saw fingers unzip the front of a tattered tent. "John?"

It was Joan. He recognized her. "Joan…I really need your help," John whispered loudly.

"What happened to you?" Joan asked as she approached him still kneeling in the center of the cluster of tents. She could see the dried blood on his face and that he was shivering. She placed her woolen-mittened hands on the sides of his face.

"I don't know. I woke up…in an alley…and all I could remember…was you. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me! I don't even know my own name," John stammered.

Joan looked John over. She remembered that when he first came to her over a year and a half ago that he had been shot. He was in trouble and was hiding. Street code prohibited people from sticking their noses where they didn't belong, so she asked no questions. She had taken care of him. Then one day he was gone. She figured he had simply moved on. Then he had come back briefly, and he was doing well. He looked so much better. She was happy for him.

Now he was back again.

When he first came to her, she was reminded of her son. She hadn't, however, been able to save her son. That was many years ago, but the pain that came flooding back to her was just as raw as it had been the day her son took his last breath.

She had always believed in Karma, so when John first came to her, she happily helped him. As Karma would have it, when John had returned last year, he had made it possible for them to stay in this building. He also arranged for good food to be brought to them all. She didn't know how he did it, but her belief in Karma strengthened.

Now he was back again…and he needed her…again. Bloody again. Injured…in pain…and hurting…again. "Come on, John," she said, putting her arm around him and up under his arms to help him to his feet. "I'll help you make sense of this."

She led him into her tent and eased him down. Taking a cloth from a bag, she whispered calmly, "Let me see if I can get that blood off your face."

He closed his eyes. He was so tired.

"When was the last time you ate or drank…or even slept…for that matter?" Joan asked. She could see that his lips were dried and cracked. Dark, inset circles surrounded his eyes. His facial coloring was ashen but his cheeks burned with fever. In many ways, he looked worse now than he had the first time he appeared before her.

"I can't remember anything. Just you," John answered in a barely audible voice.

Joan took out a bottle of water and unscrewed the top. "Here," she said, holding it out to him.

He took a large gulp and got strangled.

"Not so fast," she said.

His coughing fit continued for several minutes.

"You look like you're probably dehydrated. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I remember you patching up my stomach. But this hole is in my side, not my stomach. What the hell is going on, Joan?" John begged.

"We can figure this out. For now, take another sip," she said as she handed John the water bottle again.

He opened his eyes and then took it from her.

"Slowly," she warned. "I don't want you getting sick." She took the bottle back and poured a little on the cloth she was using to wipe the blood from his face. "Be still."

John lurched forward as the cold, wet cloth touched the gash in his head. His eyes continued to stay half-closed. He shivered from the cold.

"Somebody did a number on you this time," Joan said as she continued wiping his face. The blood was dry and hard to get off entirely without a good scrubbing. "Close your eyes all the way so I can get the blood off your eyelid."

"Joan, I can't sit much longer. I've got to sleep," John said as he started falling back.

She thrust her hands down so his head wouldn't hit the concrete surface too hard. Placing his head gently down, Joan continued washing his face until most the blood was off. In several places she couldn't tell if he were bruised or dirty, but from his reaction, it was definitely an injury. She looked beneath his jacket to determine the cause of the blood on his side. Pulling up his shirt, she located the small entrance and exist wound in his side. It didn't look serious. The wound seemed to have stopped bleeding and was dry, so she figured he had been shot several days ago. She cleaned up the blood on his side and looked him over on his stomach and back. Several bruises on his ribs and throughout his back confirmed to her that this man whom she only knew as John had been through quite a beatdown recently.

His wrists were bruised and bloody. She pulled up his sleeves to see if the injuries continued up his arms. They didn't. As she continued checking him over, she saw small puncture wounds on the back of his neck. He continued to keep a tight grip on the three left fingers with his right hand, so she suspected his fingers were injured as well. Nothing in her reality system would allow her to conceive what could possibly be the source of all these wounds.

"John, can you let go of your fingers?" she asked.

"They're hurting like hell," he mumbled.

"I wondered if you were asleep," Joan said as she looked down at him.

His eyes remained closed. "No, not really…on and off I guess," he muttered. He let lose his grip on his three left fingers.

"Looks like someone smashed them with a hammer or something," she said, revealing her disturbed facial expression. "They're probably broken. Can you move your fingers any?" She got closer to see if she could determine the cause of his injured fingers.

John breathed more heavily and appeared to be trying to open his eyes.

"It's okay," Joan said, "You just sleep. You're safe here. Don't worry."

John got a small crack in his eyes and looked at Joan. He continued to shiver. "Thank you, Joan," he said softly.

Joan touched his forehead to confirm what she thought: he had a fever. She took the soiled cloth and poured some more water over it to try and get some of the red-brown blood out of it. She then patted his forehead and cheeks.

He leaned into the cool cloth as she dabbed him with it. Even though he felt so cold, his face felt like it was burning.

"Joan, I feel terrible," he faintly said.

"I know," Joan answered. "Sleep for now. When you wake up in the morning, you'll feel as good as new. We'll figure this out. For now, just sleep." She wished she had some medicine to bring down his fever or at least some bandages, but she had nothing but saltine crackers, Vienna sausages, mixed fruit, and bottled water.

She studied this man as he lay in her tent. He had never been one to talk very much, but when he came to her the first time, she knew that he was overcome with emotional pain. In the beginning, he had had many dreams where he spoke aloud, screaming for Jessica, begging her to come back to him, crying over her apparent death. She knew that Jessica had been killed and that John wished he were dead as well. He didn't want to live without Jessica. As she nursed him back to health from his gunshot wound in his lower abdomen, he would beg her to stop and to let him die.

She wasn't going to let him die then, and she certainly wasn't going to let him die now. She would do whatever it took to save this man she only knew as John.

He lay curled up against the cold air beside her in her ramshackled tent. She knew she needed to zip back up the front to guard against the cold, but she didn't want her sudden movements to awaken him. He continued clutching the three battered fingers on his left hand.

"What in this world has happened to you?" she spoke aloud to herself.

He continued breathing fitfully.

She would periodically reach down and dab the cool cloth at John's cheeks and forehead. Each time he would lean into the coolness. Many years ago she had seen on television shows where mothers would wipe cool cloths on the faces of their feverish children as they lay in pristine beds in their immaculately decorated bedrooms. She thought that if it worked for them, then it might work for her.

After about an hour, she closed her eyes as she sat beside him, leaning against the wall of the building her tent was against. She could hear him mumble as he breathed heavily in his sleep. He no longer called for Jessica, though. That was a good sign, she thought. But who or what was he calling for this time she wondered. She couldn't yet tell.

John lay still and silent for a while, which caused her to awaken and check him. He was still in the same position. She took her mittens off and touched his forehead. He flinched at her touch.

"John, it's me…Joan," she whispered down to him.

He made no movement.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for reading. Please pay attention to the chapter titles because this story will not be told in chronological order. Hope you enjoy...and let me know your thoughts.

**CHAPTER TWO: Tuesday, January 8, 2013, 8:12 a.m.**

Strolling into the library, John was carrying a large cup of coffee. Finch looked up to make sure that it was Reese coming in. He looked back down at his computer monitor when he saw his employee.

"That explains it," Finch said.

"Explains what?" Reese asked.

"Why you're late," Finch answered.

"Just 12 minutes, Mr. Finch," John said pulling up his watch to check out the time. "I'll stay after and wash the dishes or take out the garbage if that will make you happy," he sarcastically added, sipping his coffee.

"We got another number early this morning, so I've been anxiously awaiting your arrival," Finch fretfully said.

"Relax, Finch, I'll get right on it," Reese said in a quiet, condescending tone.

Finch took Reese over to the wall where their latest number's picture and social security number were posted. "This is Mrs. Ester Duncan," Finch said, pointing to the picture.

"She's…." John started saying.

"Yes, she's elderly," Finch interrupted. "According to her information, she's 89. She has led an uneventful life, never been in trouble with the law…never even had a speeding ticket. She's owned and operated the corner deli until three years ago. Nothing special at all. She resides at the retirement center in Queens. Her three children have taken over the deli."

"I'll get right on it. Maybe it's safe to assume that she's not the perpetrator, but why would someone want to kill an old lady?" Reese asked as he grabbed his cup of coffee and headed toward the door of the library. He wasn't expecting an answer.

"I'll send this information to your phone," Finch said.

John didn't acknowledge his boss's last sentence because this was typical of their modus operandi.

John hailed a cab and headed to the deli first. As he got there, he pulled out his camera and began snapping pictures of the people inside the closed deli preparing for the day. He could smell the bread baking, which reminded him that he hadn't eaten anything yet. He snapped a few more pictures of two men and a woman busily scurrying about inside the Deli. He figured they probably opened at 10:30 for lunch. He looked around for a place where he could get comfortable for the next few hours. These three inside the deli, presumably Mrs. Duncan's children, seemed harmless enough, but Reese was smart enough to know that sometimes that type could surely surprise you. They could sometimes be the most vicious.

At 10:15, the woman inside the deli flipped the sign on the door around to Open.

Reese walked across the street to go inside and order something. It had been a long time ago that he had actually eaten freshly baked bread. He had always liked it, but he never seemed to time it right.

"Good morning," the female from behind the counter greeted him.

"Morning," Reese answered. He noticed the two men were still in the kitchen. He looked up and down at the menu posted overhead.

"What can I get for you?" she asked.

"I've just gotten back in town. There used to be an older lady who worked here….Ms. Ester…we used to call her. She would make me the best grilled turkey and Swiss cheese on toasted rye I've ever had," Reese said.

"We only do what's on the menu. Sorry," the woman said. He voice sounded a little aggravated.

Her tone piqued John's interest.

"Are you her daughter? You look a lot like her," Reese said. They really didn't look that much alike, but he thought he would give it a try.

"Yeah…now can I get you something? The lunch crowd will be in here shortly," she answered.

"Okay, well…just give me the turkey club on wheat…the number four," Reese said, pointing to sandwich number four on the menu.

"Coming right up," she said as she wrote his order on a small pad, ripped it out of the pad, and then pushed the paper across the window leading to the kitchen.

John turned around and stepped back toward the front door to switch on his ear piece and talk with Finch. He made sure the woman was busy with something else and wouldn't pay attention to him. "Finch, they seem to be a little nervous about something," he whispered. "The woman, probably Mrs. Duncan's daughter, certainly had no time for small talk. She seemed a little irritated when I mentioned Ester."

"Says here that Mrs. Duncan still owns the deli," Finch said, reading information off his computer monitor.

"Maybe they're planning to kill their mother because she's not giving them the deli fast enough," Reese said.

"Children would kill their mother for turkey club sandwiches?" Finch asked in a disbelieving tone.

"They kill for less than that," Reese answered. He knew that Finch's reference to the sandwich he had just ordered was Finch's way of telling him that he was being closely monitored. He wanted to tell Finch that he got the point loud and clear but was interrupted by the woman behind the counter holding out his order in a white paper bag that had a large red cursive D printed across its front.

"Anything else for ya?" she asked.

"No, this will do," Reese answered.

She handed Reese his change, and he shoved it in his pocket. "Come again," the woman said automatically even though this tall stranger made her a little nervous when he started poking his nose in her private family business.

Reese turned around and smiled at her, taking the opportunity to see what the two men were still doing in the kitchen. They were still kneading dough. "Oh, I will. Your mother…."

"Yes?" the woman interrupted.

"Where is she now?" Reese asked.

"She's retired," the woman answered.

"Oh, okay," Reese said. "Her choice?"

"What do you mean?" the woman asked.

"Did she want to retire?" Reese asked slowly, stressing the word want.

"What business is that of yours?" the woman asked, getting more irritated with Reese. Her gut told her that something wasn't right about this man. He was asking too many questions about her mother, and that made her uneasy.

"She loved being here. I'm just wondering," Reese said.

"Well, keep your wondering to yourself," she answered then looked down at the sandwich counter to begin cleaning it. This was her way of cueing him that she was done with him and wanted him to move on.

John could see the two men in back looking at him from the kitchen through the opening. They had stopped midway through their kneading, hands still in the dough, to stop and glare at the nosey customer.

"Okay, well, have a nice day," Reese said, smiling broadly at the woman as he retreated through the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE: Saturday, January 12, 2013, 9:48 a.m.**

John's shaking was getting worse, which deepened Joan's worry. He shook as he fitfully slept. Periodically throughout the night, she dabbed the cool cloth on his forehead. She knew she needed to get some medicine in him. "John," she said. "I need you to wake up."

He stirred a little but continued sleeping.

"Can you sit up for a few minutes and take a sip of water?" Joan asked. She was worried because he still looked so dehydrated and ashen. She pulled him up to a semi-seated position and put the water bottle to his lips. She then poured some water into his mouth. Much of the water ran out of his mouth, but he awoke enough to understand what she was attempting to do. "I'm going to try again…okay?" she asked.

John shook his head. He was parched and welcomed the water.

She managed to get several large gulps in him. "That's great," she said.

He looked at her with a confused expression on his face.

"Is that better? Can you drink some more?" she asked.

Reese nodded yes.

She held the bottle back up to his lips, and he drank some more.

It tasted good to him. He felt sleepy again and lay back down. Within moments, he was asleep.

Nudging his shoulder, she said, "John…I'm going to go out and get some medicine for you, but I'll be back soon."

John continued sleeping, not able to hear her statement.

"Rest easy, now," Joan said as she unzipped the tent and left.

A little over an hour later, Joan returned to her tent. John was still sleeping. He was still shaking and his teeth were chattering. She put her hand across his forehead to confirm that he was still feverish. His face was so hot against her cold hands. Even though she had worn her woolen mittens, her hands had gotten cold.

Snow continued to fall at a steady rate, and it was getting pretty deep out there. New Yorkers were used to navigating the winter conditions, so life was rarely altered even in conditions that bordered blizzard like weather. Her fingers stung as she unwrapped the Aleve bottle that she had swiped from the grocery store nearby. Taking four tablets out, she grabbed the bottle of water. "John…John. Can you wake up? I've got something that will help you to feel better," she said.

John's eyes fluttered open. He continued to lie still. "Joan?" he asked.

"Yes, it's me. Listen, I want you to take these pills for me. You're sick and this is Aleve. The bottle says it will give you all day relief with just two pills, so four will surely fix you up," she quietly said to him as she placed the four pills in his hand.

John knew that taking a double dose really didn't work that way, but he wasn't in any condition to dispute her belief. "Where's Finch?" he asked.

"Who?" Joan asked.

"Finch," he answered, closing his eyes again.

"No…no…I need you to stay with me, okay? You need to stay awake long enough to swallow those pills and eat something," Joan said as she helped him sit up.

He looked around, revealing his confusion. "Where am I?" he asked.

"You're in my tent," Joan answered.

"Where?" he asked.

"What do you mean where," she responded as she took the pills from his hand and placed them in his mouth. She then brought the water bottle up to his lips.

"Take a big drink. You look seriously dehydrated," she warned. She placed the half-full water bottle in his right hand. "Keep taking small sips. You really need to get hydrated."

He took the bottle and titled his head back to drink what was left in it.

"John, I know I shouldn't be asking you this, but do you want me to show you where the closest hospital is?" Joan asked.

"I don't think so," he answered. "For some reason I don't think I should go to a hospital." He felt very sick—cold and hot and exhausted and nauseous. But his gut instinct told him to just stay where he was.

"Okay, I don't think so either, but I'm worried about you," she answered as she placed her cool hands on his flushed cheeks. His appearance was a contradiction to her: at the same time flushed and ashen, cold and hot.

"What has happened to me?" he asked.

"I don't know. You just showed up here last night," she answered. "Who's Finch?"

"I can't remember," John said. "I think he's someone important, but I can't remember exactly who he is."

"Okay," Joan said.

"Joan, I'm so tired. Do you mind if I sleep some more?" he asked.

"Do you want to eat something first?" she asked.

He turned up his nose.

She was concerned about his ashen completion, so she supposed he hadn't eaten anything in a few days. "I know you probably don't feel like it, but how about some fruit? I have a few cans of mixed fruit," she offered.

Before he could answer, she was out in her shopping cart rummaging around for a can of mixed fruit. She knew better than to offer the sausages. Even the strongest of stomachs often couldn't tolerate Vienna Sausages.

"Come on and sit back up," she said as she pulled him back up against the wall. Taking the spoon, she dipped it into the can to pull out some sweet syrupy mixture. She took the spoon up to his lips, and he took in the sugar water.

He looked over at her with just his eyes, not turning his head.

She recognized that expression. "Good, huh? How about some more?"

He just kept staring at her as if he didn't quite know what to say.

"Here ya go," she said, placing the spoon in his right hand. She knew he was a lefty, but he wouldn't be able to manage the spoon with his injured fingers. She also remembered how prideful he was and wouldn't like it having her feed him like he was an invalid. She propped the can on his thigh. "I'll go get me a can, too, and will join you," she said.

John awkwardly starting feed himself the mixed fruit. The sugary syrup mixture inched down his sore throat.

"More water?" she asked.

"Yes, please," John answered.

She went out and came back in the tent a few minutes later with two bottles of water. She twisted the top for him and put the bottle near his leg. "It's snowing and as cold as the artic out there," Joan stated. "Glad you got out of the snow when you did or you'd have froze to death." She could see his eyes getting heavy and beginning to flutter closed. Taking the spoon out of his hand, she pushed it down into her can to get to the syrup mixture from her can of fruit. "John, open up," she instructed. To hell with his pride, she thought, he needs nourishment.

His eyes opened a little then his mouth. She put the syrup mixture in his mouth. "Eat and drink a little more before you go back to sleep," she insisted. "It will help you feel better. You need to eat."

"My throat burns," John whispered.

"Just eat," Joan responded.

He ate very slowly and continued sipping the water. She was right, the fruit and water did help him feel a little better…a little stronger. After he finished the can, he set it beside his leg and leaned back against the wall.

"It's gonna take a while, but if you keep eating and drinking like this, you'll be up and about in no time," she said as she took the cool cloth and patted his face. In the daylight, she could see how much of the brownish dried blood she had missed the night before. He still looked awful to her.

He gave her a weak smile then closed his eyes, still leaning back against the wall.

"Do you want me to help you lie down?" she asked.

He pulled up his head and responded, "I got it."

Knowing that it would be awhile before he was ready to be on his feet, she was now a woman on a mission. She needed to get some food that he could eat that would help him regain his strength. So she left the encampment and headed out for food and beverage at every food pantry within walking distance. Cold weather and precipitation had a way of driving out the homeless into shelters, soup kitchens, and food pantries. Finding what she needed may be a little challenging, but she was prepared to go to as many of these places as it took to get what she needed for her John. She cared deeply for him and wanted to see him back on his feet ready to go back to the life he had been living. She knew that he protected people who were in trouble, and these people needed him.

So, in a sense, these helpless people were counting on her…needed her, too.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR: Saturday, January 12, 2013, 3:31 p.m.**

Joan had returned several times during the day and had painstakingly unpacked the food she had received from several food pantries in the city. There were plenty of homeless people in New York City, so there were plenty of soup kitchens, pantries, and shelters throughout the city. John continued to sleep each time she came back with food. She had decided to let him sleep and then wake him up when she returned from her final trip.

For dinner she decided on canned chicken noodle soup and apple juice. As she entered her tent, she could see that he was still shivering in his sleep. She wondered if it was unusual for chills and fever to last this long. She just didn't know a lot about illnesses because she hadn't had a lot of experience with them. Her son had died quite a few years ago when he was a little boy, sending her down the path to the life she was living now.

What she knew about fevers was that they were sometimes caused by infections, and infections needed antibiotics. Antibiotics were attainable on the streets. All she had to do was send out the word that she was in the market for antibiotics, and she felt confident that they would be in her possession in very little time. The homeless were a network of people who knew how to depend on each other to survive. She went ahead and prepared the soup by pouring half of it in a cup and then adding some water. She also opened the bottle of apple juice. "John, I need to you wake up again," she said softly to him.

His eyes shot open and began firing back and forth across the tent. His expression again showed his unawareness of where he was and his uncertainty about what was happening to him.

"It's okay, John," Joan said then paused for several moments. "I want you to eat some of this soup." She had placed a plastic spoon down into the cup. "Sit up, okay?"

He looked at her as he moved himself up into a seated position against the wall. "Water. Do you have any water? I'm so thirsty," John said.

"Here," Joan answered, "try this." She handed him the bottle of apple juice.

He looked at it with a puzzled expression. Its light brown appearance reminded him of something. Flashing in his mind were three large men and light brown liquid they forced down his throat. It had tasted bad and made his throat feel irritated and sore. "Vinegar," John whispered. "They forced me to drink vinegar."

"This is apple juice…I promise. It will be good for you," Joan said as she patted him lightly on the back of his neck.

John unthinkingly reached out with his battered left hand. She offered him a small smile then reached down and inserted the bottle in his right hand. When he became aware of what had just happened, he looked down at his left hand and stared at his injured fingers. "What has happened to me?" he asked in whisper tones.

"I'm not sure yet. We'll figure it out. In the time being, you need to regain your strength," she said. "Go ahead...take a drink of the juice."

He did as he was told. The apple juice was sickening sweet and tangy, but he continued to drink.

"You drank vinegar?" Joan asked. She wasn't comfortable prying into his business, but John needed her to help him make sense these pieces and flashes of memory.

He nodded. "Three men. I don't know who they are. Two had Russian accents…they sometimes spoke in Russian. I can remember that."

Joan couldn't figure out why they would force him to drink vinegar. In addition to being shot, beaten, and having food and drink withheld, why on earth would they make him drink vinegar, she wondered. After several minutes, she asked, "Why vinegar?"

"To speed up dehydration," John answered. He was surprised that that information came readily to him.

"Oh my God...who would you that?" Joan cried.

"I don't know who they are and why they did this to me," John said.

"Here," she said, holding out the cup of chicken soup towards him. "Eat all of this for me."

John reached out and took the cup of soup from her. "Okay," he answered.

Joan couldn't hold back, "They have to be monsters to force a man to drink vinegar to make him dehydrated!"

He nodded in agreement as he began eating one small bite at a time of the chicken noodle soup she had prepared for him.

A few minutes later, Joan asked, "Who's Finch?" She had remembered the name from yesterday.

"He's my boss…I think," John answered without any forethought. He looked surprised for being able to recall that piece of information, too.

"Very good," Joan said. "Is that his nickname…last name?"

"His last name, I think," John answered, taking another gulp of the juice.

"What's the line of work? What do you do?" Joan asked. She knew that he helped people who were in trouble, but she didn't exactly know who or what he worked for.

"I don't remember," John answered, putting down the bottle on the floor beside the soup cup so he could wrap his hand around his forehead. "My head is killing me."

Joan could see him pressing into his forehead to try and alleviate the pain. "How about some more medicine?" she asked.

"Okay," he answered. "So much for all day relief...even with a double dose." He offered up a weak smile at her.

Joan laughed, "Right." Then she added, "Pretty soon I'm going to get you some antibiotics to take care of that infection, which must be what's causing your fever and chills."

"You trust it?" John asked apprehensively.

"Sure…I wouldn't be giving you something if I thought it would hurt you," she smiled and patted him on the arm then placed the back of her hand against his cheeks. Handing him the Aleve, she watched him drink the rest of the juice and get down a single does this time of the little light-blue pills. "Keep eatin' that soup."

John took another bite. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Close to four I guess," she answered. "You still sleepy?"

"Yes, I feel like I haven't slept in a year," John answered.

"Looks like your chills have slowed down a little," Joan said as she looked him over.

John didn't answer. He hadn't thought about it.

"What kind of work are you and Finch in?" she asked unexpectantly.

"I work for Finch…we work for ourselves to help people in trouble," John answered without thinking.

"Okay, that's a start," Joan answered.

John looked up at her and offered her another small smile. "It's a start," he agreed.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE: Tuesday, January 8, 2013, 6:30 p.m.**

"Finch, not much is happening here. I think I'll go over to the Retirement Center and pay Mrs. Duncan a little visit," he said to Finch through his ear piece as he stood across the street from the deli watching the Duncans go about their usual business.

"Be careful, Mr. Reese," Finch said. That was an automatic response but one that he also meant.

John hailed a cab and headed to Queens to the Retirement Center where Mrs. Duncan had been living for the past three years.

When he arrived, the center was just as he had envisioned. Finding his way to the reception desk, John asked where Mrs. Duncan's room was. He was directed to 208 with a smile and up and down glances from the women behind the counter. They pointed him in the right direction. As he approached the door, he paused. Hearing nothing but the television, he knocked several times. There was no answer. Slowly entering, John could see Mrs. Duncan asleep in her bed with the television on late afternoon talk shows. He took a chair beside her bed and looked at her for several moments. She seemed harmless enough, but he had been in this business long enough to no longer be fooled by appearances.

"Mrs. Duncan," he said.

No response.

He touched her on her arm that lay out of the covers.

No response.

He continued to sit for several more minutes.

Nothing.

Sitting for awhile longer, he thought to himself that this was a waste of time. So he headed back to the reception area where he thought he could smile his way into some information.

"Ugh…Connie," he said peering down to look at her name badge. "My friend, Mrs. Duncan…is she just a heavy sleeper? I can't get her to wake up. I haven't see her in several years…well, at least since she was at the deli last," he said, trying his best at appearing innocent and flirtatious.

"That's all she does. We've been told to keep on the television, but she doesn't wake up much. When she does, she screams," Connie told him.

"Screams?" John asked.

"Yeah, yells for help. It's awful, so we're glad she sleeps most of the time," Connie added.

The hair arose on the back of John's neck. This wasn't good. "Does she have many visitors?" John asked.

"Just her kids and a couple of nephews," Connie said. "They come about every other day or so."

"Is she happy to see them?" John asked.

"She doesn't even know they're there. Kinda sad…really," Connie said.

"Thank you. You've been very helpful," John said as he turned to leave the Retirement Center.

"Helpful?" Connie asked, her tone rising.

"Well, you know," John answered, turning back around to face her.

Connie just stared at him. She didn't know.

John couldn't think of anything to add, so he turned up the sides of his mouth as large as they would go. "I just meant thank you very much for helping me," he said as he turned back around and started heading toward the exit door.

Come back any time," Connie yelled down the hall to him as he opened the door.

John turned and nodded to her with the big smile still on his face. He knew that he probably needed to go back to the Retirement Center, and he knew he needed all the help from the inside he could possibly get. "I will, and I'll be sure to look you up," John flirted. He knew he was not very good at flirting with women. But Connie seemed overly enthusiastic, so he really didn't have to try very hard. That was a good thing, he thought.

He headed back to the deli to see what the Duncan siblings might be up to. He knew the deli was scheduled to close at 9 p.m., so he wanted to see what they did after closing.

When he arrived at the deli, he waited uneventfully across the street with binoculars in hand and a camera wrapped around his neck. It was only a few hours until closing. The smell of the bread reminded him that all he had eaten that day was the coffee in the morning and then the turkey sandwich the daughter had made for him at 10:30. He continued to watch them scurry around inside. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

A little after 9 p.m., the daughter flipped the sign to Closed. They continued working, appearing to clean and get ready for the next day. Eventually, one by one, they all sat at a back table and began sipping coffee and eating sandwiches. They didn't appear to be in any hurry to leave.

Sometime later, it was apparent that they heard something in the back room, so they all got up and headed in that direction. John needed to get closer to see what was going on. He clicked on his ear piece and said, "Finch, someone must have come through the back entrance. They all went to the back. I'm getting closer to see what's going on."

"Careful, Mr. Reese," Finch warned. "I've been doing a little digging on the Duncan family. Ester Duncan's husband wasn't always a Duncan."

"He changed his name?" Reese asked as he started trotting across the street.

"Yes, Abraham Duncan used to be Abram Durchenko. Both he and Ester legally changed their names in 1946 before having their first child," Finch emphatically stated into the phone, hoping John would understand that the situation he may be coming upon could be more dangerous than usual. Tangling with the Russian mob single-handedly would be a death sentence for John.

"So your point, Mr. Finch, is that Ester and Abram Durchenko didn't want their children saddled with Russian names?" Reese asked.

"Well…yes, Mr. Reese…but also that they seemed to sever all their ties with Russia and become fully Americanized at that point," Finch answered. "That's also when they opened their little deli."

"I don't think there is any need for hysterics at this juncture in the road, Mr. Finch," Reese said.

"Well no, Mr. Reese, just be careful. I have a bad feeling about this one," Finch calmly stated.

"You and your bad feeling are dually noted," Reese stated as he made his way to the corner of the deli so he could peer inside. He could see shadows but not make out anything so he decided to go to the back alley and try to get a letter look through the backdoor. Creeping down the dark alley, he could barely see in front of himself because it was so dark. It had gotten quite cold. He turned up his collar around his neck to try to keep the frigid air out.

As he neared the back entrance of the deli, he could hear their voices…a mixture of American and Russian accents yelling at one another. There appeared to be all men except for the Duncan daughter who had served him his sandwich earlier in the day. They were arguing about money, and John strained to hear more of what they were yelling about.

As he crept closer to the deli's back door, John accidently stepped on the plastic trash bags that had been thrown in the alley awaiting for their trip to the trash bins. He stumbled as he tried to make his way around the trash that had clinked and rattled with the garbage inside.

"Finch, I may need some help here," John worriedly stated in his ear piece. After he caught his balance, he stood very still, away from the door in case someone were to come out of the backdoor. Holding his breath, he waited.

"Reese…are you alright?" Finch yelled into the phone.

John said nothing for fear that someone would hear him.

"John…John…are you alright? I'm calling Carter and Fusco," Finch exclaimed.

"I'm okay," Reese whispered. There didn't seem to be anyone coming out, so he let out his pent up breath. He listened at the door. He could still hear them yelling.

One of the Duncan sons yelled something inaudible about his mother while one of the Russians yelled about cleaning the money. His accent was heavy. It had to be mob connected, Reese thought. Maybe the Duncan siblings were laundering money for the Russian mob. But how is this connected to the threat against Ester Duncan's life, he thought. There were too many pieces of the puzzle and just not a clear picture at all. Maybe he needed to go back to the Retirement Home for another visit to Mrs. Duncan, he thought.

He flicked on the light on his watch's face to see the time. It was later than he had thought it was. "Finch, in the morning I'm heading back to the Retirement Home for another visit to Ester. Something is just not right. Since she's the one who's presumably being threatened, maybe I can find some answers there if I dig a little deeper. I'll touch base with you when I'm there if I discover anything useful at all to this case," John whispered.

"What are you going to do now? Finch asked.

"I thought I would watch them for a while longer from across the street and see what might be happening inside that deli," Reese answered.

"That's good…a much better plan, Mr. Reese," Finch responded.

"You're worried about me, huh, Mr. Finch?" Reese asked in a mocking tone.

Finch clicked off the phone.

Reese laughed to himself as he headed out of the alley and back across the street from the deli.


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX: Wednesday, January 9, 2013, 8:22 a.m.**

Reese entered the Retirement Home and glanced toward the Nurse's Station. He saw Connie typing into a computer. He wanted to try to bypass her so he wouldn't have to make conversation again. Taking the opposite hallway and the roundabout way to Ester Duncan's room, Reese finally made it to Room 208. Her door was closed. Again, his training taught him to pause outside of a closed door to listen first. Again, he heard nothing but the television. As he prepared to knock on the door, he saw a shadow coming from down the hallway. Turning slightly, he saw it was Connie.

"It's you again," Connie fervently said.

John forced his broad smile again and turned completely around to face her.

"Yes, it's me again. Just want to say Good Morning to my friend. Is that okay?" he asked.

"Why certainly," Connie answered. Then she added, "Maybe she'll be a little more alert for you this morning."

"I hope so," John said. "I'll see you soon, okay?"

"Okay!" Connie answered. Her plump cheeks reddened as she continued walking down the hallway to another's patient's room.

John dropped his smile. Pausing for a moment, he turned the door handle and inched into Ester Duncan's room. She was still in the same prone position as she had been the previous day. He stood for several moments then let the door close from behind him. He wasn't sure what exactly he had come again for or what he was going to do. He just knew that she had very little time left before meeting her demise, probably at the hands of her own children and nephews.

"Mrs. Duncan," Reese said in a low tone, "It's me again. I'm just checking on you to make sure you're safe." He then inched forward to her bed.

"But who's checking on you?" a Russian accent blurted into John's ear, emerging from its hiding place behind the door.

Reese could feel the Russian's hot breath against his ear. Before he could react, he felt the cool steal of a gun being pushed into the side of his head.

"Damn," he stated under his breath. Then he caught from his peripheral view someone else coming forward from behind the door. It was Mrs. Duncan's daughter. She was holding a syringe in her hand.

"Just who the hell _are_ you?" the daughter hostilely shouted, stressing the word _are_ in her sentence.

"Just someone wanting the recipe for a turkey sandwich no longer on the menu," John sarcastically answered. He abruptly turned around and attempted to hit the Russian and knock the gun out of his hands.

They scuffled for a few minutes, both making whole-fist contact with each other's faces.

"Anton," the daughter yelled, "Don't let him get away!" Then she joined in on the scuffle, and Reese held up his hands to prevent her from continuing to throw at him whatever objects happened to be within her grasp.

He intentionally kept his sight on the syringe, waiting for the opportune moment to grab it away from her.

They continued to scuffle until they heard a voice coming from the door that had apparently just opened. "What's going on in here?" Connie asked.

Anton had been knocked to the floor. John and the daughter stood frozen and silent. "Is everything okay?" Connie asked in a sweet voice, making eye contact with John. "Ms. Duncan, what's going on in here?" she asked again, directing her question to the daughter.

The daughter wasn't sure how to answer.

John saw Anton, from his supine position on the floor, raise his gun toward Connie. "No!" he shouted and jumped forward in an attempt to block her. Within a split second, the bullet pierced his side and flew into Connie's forehead.

She stood for a few moments with a trickle of blood dripping from her forehead, her expression one of horror. She turned her head to look at John, who was himself shocked at the senselessness of her impending death. Then she dropped to her knees and fell forward. She was dead.

Anton jumped to his feet. Simultaneously, the daughter lunged for the dish garden, which she was planning to plunge into Reese's head. Reese kept his eyes on the syringe. He knew the only way to save Ester Duncan would be to get that syringe away from the daughter. John stood still, contemplating their next move and deciding on his own.

The daughter then attempted to throw the dish garden at him, but Reese scuffled forward, thrusting his body into hers. The dish garden fell to the floor as Reese landed on her and they crashed onto the floor. He then grabbed the syringe as it flew from her hands. With clarity of mind, he shoved it into his jacket pocket. In the scurry of activity, the daughter wasn't even aware that she had lost the syringe. Then the Russian grabbed the dish garden that had sprawled onto the floor and banged it over Reese's head. Dirt and plant pieces flew all around Reese's head and the floor.

John then fell limp, partially still on top of the daughter.

"Anton, you son of a bitch! Get him off me! Help me up!" she screamed. She hated the sight of blood, and she was petrified that Reese's blood would run down onto her.

Anton reached down and pulled her to her feet. "Margaret, who is this? What does he want with your mother?" he nervously asked.

"I don't know. He came in for a sandwich yesterday asking about mom," she answered.

"This better not be a double cross," Anton said.

"Don't be insane. This will not interfere with our business! Let's get the hell out of here before someone else comes in," Margaret commanded.

Anton aimed his gun at John's head,

"No! Are you an idiot?" Margaret yelled.

Anton gave her a confused look.

"Besides someone hearing yet another gun blast, we need to find out who this is and what he wants," Margaret said.

Anton grabbed the rotary phone and ripped it from the wall. Taking the cord, he wrapped it around John's neck and yanked at it, cutting off John's air until he coughed and roused. He then used the phone cord to forcibly pull John to his feet. Margaret continued to push the gun into the back of John's head.

As they shoved John into the car, he was determined to inconspicuously hide the syringe inside his boot for safe keeping and his earpiece inside the obscure pocket in his jacket. It was his only connection to Finch and his only hope of getting out of this situation alive. It was also the only way right now that Finch could get the whole story as to why the Duncan children wanted to kill their elderly mother.

Then everything went black for John.

A little later John awoke in the backseat of the car with Margaret pointing the gun's barrel directly at his head. Anton was at the river discarding Connie's body as if she were a bag of garbage. "That was completely unnecessary," Reese stated.

Margaret said nothing. She never took her eyes off John or changed her facial expression.

After Anton was satisfied that Connie's body was fully submerged in the river, he returned to the back seat of the car. He took the gun from Margaret, who started the car and put it in drive. She sped away from the river quickly.

John broke the silence several minutes later asking, "What…did the old lady find out you were using her store to launder money for the Russian mob?"

"Shut him up, Anton!" Margaret yelled.

Anton hit Reese across his eyebrow with his gun. "Shut the hell up!" he yelled.

The pain in his head shot across his face and down into his jaw. "Damn," Reese said. "That's it, isn't it?"

Margaret clenched the steering wheel while Anton looked back and forth between Reese and the back of Margaret's head.

"She just wouldn't die, would she? That's why she screams. She remembers you trying to kill her. You would kill your own mother over some stupid dirty money."

"I said shut him up!" Margaret screamed through clenched teeth.

Anthon pulled at the phone cord until John appeared to lose his breath and pass out. He slumped over to the side of the door, still tethered like a dog on a leash. Blood from his two head wounds continued trickling down his face. His head hurt like hell, but he wanted to be conscious to hear what conversation he might have provoked between Margaret and Anton. So he remained still and silent against the car door.

"If he's cartel, then this isn't good for any of us," Anton finally said.

"It's not necessary to state the obvious," Margaret shot back as she continued driving. "Frank and Jarrod will know what to do. Let's just get him to the deli so we can all figure this out."

"Viktor and Boris aren't going to be very happy about this," Anton stated.

"Listen Anton, we five go back a long ways. There's no need to start distrusting each other right now. We just need to figure out who he's working for and what they want.

"If it is the cartel, then we're all as good as dead," Anton stated.

Margaret knew he was right but didn't want to acknowledge that to him. "Let's just get to the deli and figure this out," she said in softer tones.

"This isn't going to be good," Anton repeated.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN: Wednesday, January 9, 2013, 11:16 a.m.**

When John later awoke, he had no idea how much time had passed. His head was aching and throbbing, and his side burned. The smell of the freshly baked bread enveloped him, piercing through his nostrils as he awoke. He knew he must be back at the deli. His mouth was gagged, a blindfold was tied tightly over his eyes, and both of his arms and wrists were tightly tied to the arms of the chair by what felt like a rough, natural fiber rope.

Viktor Durchenko, who had taken over for his brother and cousin, saw John beginning to stir. He was the oldest of the three Durchenko brothers. He was also the biggest and without much of a conscience. "That will be the last time I let you sleep," he said.

John instinctively turned toward his voice even though he couldn't see anything because of the blindfold. He recognized that this voice was different than Anton's. John surmised that he must be one of the Russian brothers.

"Why did you go to the deli yesterday? Viktor asked, pulling the gag out of John's mouth.

"The sandwiches," John laughed at the obviousness of the question. Sometimes his sarcasm came out much too quickly.

Viktor punched John in his stomach. "Let me rephrase. Who are you working for? What do you want?"

John gasped for air. As he pushed against the restraints, he could feel the blood on his face from his head wounds. They hurt but were tolerable. In his past, he had endured much more than this. "Take off this blindfold so I can see who's hitting me," John said. He heard nothing in response. There was no noise at all. He wondered if the Russian had left when he was trying to catch his breath. He knew he had to wriggle free of the ropes if he hoped to get out of this situation, but he was going to be cautious in case they were watching him. He really needed to get the blindfold off.

Sometime later, John heard a cell phone ring.

"Hello," the Russian voice said. It was yet another different voice, so John surmised that it was the third brother, Boris. He was just a short distance away.

John was surprised he was in the room. He could usually feel other people's presences. But right now he felt nothing.

"Yes," Boris said.

Okay, John thought, this one wasn't the boss. The boss must be calling in the orders.

John continued to sit. "So, what did the boss say?" he finally asked.

"He said to torture you until you disclosed who you were working for and what you wanted," Boris answered.

"I was just visiting an old friend of mine, Miss Ester. She used to make me special sandwiches. I just got back in town, so I wanted to visit her again. You all are making a lot more out of this than necessary," he said. Then he felt the blindfold being ripped off his face.

"So, why does a man who is visiting an old lady in a home feel the need to wear an ear piece with a tracking device?" Boris asked.

John was surprised that the Russian had found his earpiece in his jacket pocket. Pushing his ankle against his boot, John was relieved that the syringe was still tucked in there. "That's just my cell phone," John answered. "I was forever losing my phones, so the wife made me start wearing an ear piece. She's the untrusting type, so she likes the GPS to be able to know where I am," John tried his best at making an innocent face as he shrugged his shoulders.

"Try again, Mr. Reese," Boris said. "Ah, yes, he said to be careful."

John stopped talking. The Russian had apparently heard Finch on the other end when he found the earpiece.

"Don't worry, we stomped it and disposed of it properly. We certainly don't want more people joining us until we know exactly who you are working for," Boris said.

John didn't answer. He knew another lie would only worsen the situation.

John thought that if he could get the Russian closer, then maybe he could head-butt him. But he knew he needed to get free of the restraints first. At least without the blindfold the playing field was beginning to get a little bit more even. Now he could see what was available in his surroundings to help him with his escape. The rope was thick but could be worn away against an edge. This would just take time, he thought, but he wasn't sure how much time they would play with him before they decided to just kill him.

Hours passed, and there was no conversation between him and Boris. Then he heard someone entering the room. It was Viktor again. The two brothers began talking in their native language. Then Boris left, leaving Viktor to stay with John. "So, what's next?" John asked.

Viktor gave no response. He began taking things out of his pocket and placing them strategically on a table for John to see. He had brought all sorts of instruments of torture. This made John pick up his speed trying to inconspicuously fray the rope.

Then Viktor began eating a sandwich and drinking a beverage as he stared at John. John recognized the white bag with the red cursive D.

John felt hungry but was slightly troubled because he knew they weren't going to give him any water. This was a classic approach to breaking someone. Hunger passes, but dehydration wreaks havoc on the body. Viktor approached him. He held a large knife in his hands as he walked behind John.

"And so, Mr. Reese. You believe you are strong. I suspect you are from the looks of you," Viktor said as he looked John up and down. He continued to pace around John in a circle. "Just so we are clear with one another, we suspect you are working for the cartel. If that's the case, then you're worth more to us alive than dead. However, it angers us that you would have the audacity to go to the old lady. We won't kill you, but what we will do to you will certainly make you wish we would go ahead and end your miserable life."

John knew he had been in worse situations and had escaped, so at this point, Viktor was more of an aggravation to him than anything else. "So, what's your play, Viktor?" John asked, stressing his name so Viktor would know that John knew.

John's lack of respect for him angered Viktor. He walked agitatedly over to the table and picked up a cross-peen hammer. Pausing to inhale deeply and apparently level his emotions, Viktor then came back to John.

John thought to himself that this didn't look good.

Viktor grabbed John's left index finger and pulled it straight against the arm of the chair.

John tried recoiling his fingers into a fist, but Viktor pushed down on the back of his hand. This pressure forced his fingers to flex out straight. In an instant, John felt the pain of the impact of the hammer hitting his index finger.

"I want to be clear with you, Mr. Reese. I am the only one in this relationship who gets to ask questions," he said as he paused to look at John's face. It seemed to please Viktor that he had just caused John some pain. "You are expected to answer my questions, or more of the same will occur."

"I am not afraid of pain or death," John calmly answered.

"That may be the case, but I enjoy inflicting pain and death. So maybe we're a perfect pair," Viktor answered.

John gave no response.

"So here are the rules of our play. I just love honesty, don't you, Mr. Reese?"

John gave Viktor a small sneer.

"While you are visiting with us, you will do as you are told. Just in case you are wondering, you will show respect to us. And…oh, well, we will offer you no food or beverage. We will break you," Viktor malevolently said.

John concentrated on trying to gain a full understanding of this man before him. He had always believed that the most efficient way to lose a fight was to act without knowing the enemy. He would not act yet. His play was to know this enemy before him, and then take him down.

"Oh, I might have told you an untruth. We will certainly give you drink. A Russian favorite, eh?" Viktor taunted as he walked back to the table. With his back to John, he began pouring something into a glass. "You will show your manners and drink."

Approaching John with the glass full of a light brown mixture, Viktor's smile was larger than before. He picked up his cell phone and made a call, speaking into it in Russian.

Viktor came close enough that John could smell the vinegar in the glass. He knew the tactic. Vinegar speeds up dehydration. They wanted him broken sooner rather than later. Viktor stood in front of John smiling, saying nothing.

Several minutes later, the Duncan brothers entered the room. They were wearing dirty aprons. Both were wiping their hands on brown paper towels.

"Derzhi yego," Viktor commanded. Both men then grabbed John by the head and pushed his head back.

John clinched his mouth closed.

"Frank, you pry his mouth open. Jarrod, you hold his head," Viktor ordered.

After several minutes of pressure on his mouth, Frank was able to get John's lips parted. Jarrod continued holding his head back. Viktor approached with the glass full of apple cider vinegar and what looked like a turkey baster. Squeezing the rubber handle so the vinegar filled the baster, Viktor held up in front of John's face the baster full of the vinegar. He then thrust it into John's mouth alongside his cheek to the back of his throat.

John's gag reflex kicked in, but the Duncan brothers held him tightly. The next thing John was aware of was the awful taste of the vinegar as it ran down his throat. His gag reflex continued to activate against the pressure of the Duncan brothers.

After the baster was empty, Viktor put it back down into the glass and filled it up again. He turned back toward John and his cousins. "Frank, "Otkrytʹ rot snova!" he shouted.

Frank responded by prying open John's mouth again.

John was feeling sick. He wanted to vomit.

Viktor inserted the baster back into John's mouth, again against his cheek and all the way back to his throat. He continued pushing down on the rubber handle to make the vinegar emerge into John's throat. John tried closing his throat to prevent anymore vinegar from going down. Viktor saw what he was doing and pinched his cheeks. The vinegar ran down his throat. It sickened his stomach more. They stood there laughing at the apparent color change in John's face. Viktor laughed the loudest and seemed to be enjoying the treatment the most. "My budem slomatʹ yego," he laughed. Grabbing John by his cheeks again, he laughed, "Did you get that?"

"We will break him," John whispered in a raspy, low tone.

"Ah, so our boy knows Russian," Viktor said.

John closed his eyes. He heard the door open from behind him and Margaret calling her brothers. They let loose of John. "Lunch crowd," one of them said to Viktor.

Then it was just John and Viktor alone again.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT: Sunday, January 13, 2013, 10:53 a.m.**

John was sleeping with very little commotion. Joan didn't know if this was a good or bad thing, but he did seem to be a little less fretful. It horrified her to then start thinking about her son.

Her son had been sick most of his young life. He had been in pain for about as long as he had been alive. She believed her family thought she was not fit enough to care for her own son, so they swarmed around her and him until the day he died.

The morning before he died, he looked peaceful like a little angel. She tried to tell everyone he was about to die, but they put her off, whispering amongst themselves that she was becoming more and more unstable. She knew her little angel was about to die, but her family just hugged her and told her not to worry. They told her his angelic form was a good sign that he was getting better. Her instinct, however, told her that he was going to die soon. And he did.

When he died, she began hating her family for patronizing her with sorrowful glances then turning around and telling her that he was better off now because he was with God. She stopped talking to God at that moment. Then she stopped talking to her family. Then one day she abruptly left her home, leaving no note or forwarding address.

There was no forwarding address. She went under a bridge and wept in the arms of an old homeless lady named Geraldine. Geraldine didn't chastise her for her anger toward God or her family. Geraldine patted her back and let her cry for days.

Joan never returned home.

Reaching out to pat the cool cloth against John's feverish cheeks, Joan couldn't help but think that he had been sent to her—twice now— to give her life a sense of purpose, to connect her to something bigger and more important. She placed her hand on his forehead to see if she could tell if his temperature had changed. She couldn't tell. She had heard through the network to expect a bottle or antibiotics, but she didn't know whether or not they would help his temperature go down. She closed her eyes and leaned against the brick wall her tent was beside.

Several hours later Joan awoke to John shouting. She couldn't understand what he was saying.

"Vy ne slomatʹ menya! YA ne boyusʹ smerti!" John screamed.

"John…John…I do not understand. I don't know what you want," Joan pleaded. She shook him awake. "John…what do you need?"

John's eyes opened and affixed on Joan.

They were both quiet for a few minutes.

"John, what can I do for you?" she quietly asked.

"There were five of them…four men and a woman. They were going to kill an old woman," John whispered.

"Were you trying to stop them from killing her?" Joan asked.

"They were trying to make me talk, but I told them that they could not break me. I am not afraid of death," he answered.

Joan poured some more water on the cloth and continued wiping his face. She noticed that he closed his eyes to her touch. "How about some water?" she asked.

He shook his head up and down a few times.

She left the tent and came back with a bottle of water. She unscrewed the top and nudged it against his right hand. His eyes were still closed. "John, you might not be afraid of death, but I couldn't bear it if you died," she muttered.

"Joan, there's too much left in this world for me to do than to die right now," he responded. With his eyes still closed, he turned up the corners of his mouth to display a small smile for her.

She smiled as she pulled him into her. She had rarely allowed herself to exhibit such a sign of emotion, but John was special to her. She also knew that John was not one to be overly emotional, but it was she who needed him at that moment. She needed to feel like a mother again…she needed to feel connected to the world. She could feel him lightly breathing as she hugged him. "John, I just don't know what else to do for you," she implored.

"You are giving me exactly what I need," John answered quietly. "Okay, then drink some more water. Since you're counting on me to see you through this rough patch, then you need to listen to me…okay?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," John answered as he drank most of the water in the bottle. "I'm going to fix you something to eat, too, and I want you to eat it," Joan instructed.

John responded with a smile. He lay back down as she left the tent to round up something for Sunday morning breakfast. When she returned a little later, John was back asleep again. She had smeared peanut butter on saltine crackers and had brought the crackers and an apple and some orange juice in a box into the tent for them to share. Shaking his arm with one hand, she held out in front of him a piece of cardboard that served as a plate.

He awoke easily this time. Seeing her, he smiled.

"Scoot up…okay?" she asked.

John sat up and leaned against the brick wall.

She put the cardboard between them. She could tell by his facial expression that he wasn't hungry but was eating out of obligation. "Peanut butter will help you feel stronger. I want you to eat all these crackers," she demanded.

After getting down two peanut butter crackers, John said, "I'm feeling better already." His eyes still drooped, and his flushed cheeks were the only coloring he had.

"John, now it's not nice to lie to an old lady," Joan teased.

As they sat there, bells from the nearby Catholic Church started to ring.

John tilted his head to try to figure out what they were playing.

"They're pretty, aren't they?" Joan asked.

John smiled. "That's the nicest thing I've heard in a long time," he answered.

She nudged his hand with the orange juice box, and he took it from her. He finished the little juice box in several gulps.

"That's good, John. You keep doing this, and you'll be out of here in no time," she said. She had mixed feelings about him leaving, though.


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE: Thursday, January 10, 2013, 9:13 p.m.**

John had lost track of who was playing warden. The Durchenko brothers had been taking turns, but now it seemed random so he had a hard time keeping ahead of their game. Maybe they were drawing straws, he thought. With that thought, he became aware that his brain was perhaps losing its acuity.

He was so tired. Every time his mind wanted to shut down, he was struck or inflicted with some other form of punishment. The Durchenko brothers were relentless.

Viktor was the most aggressive and creative of the three. Anton was the weakest and smallest of the three, and he was also the least attentive. Boris was the middle ground between them. John then surmised that Boris was the middle child. While Viktor acted as though he thoroughly enjoyed the events, Boris did so out of obligation, and Anton acted as though he was going through the motions. They were an interesting sibling group, John thought.

Later, John's head began feeling heavy, and it started falling forward. Then, all of the sudden, he felt excruciating pain in his left middle finger. Viktor had smashed it with the hammer like he had done his index finger the day prior. It was purple and began to swell immediately. John closed his eyes to focus his attention elsewhere.

Then John felt a knife hacking at the ropes that kept his arms restrained to the chair. The ropes tying him to the chair remained in place. He had not anticipated this move and wasn't sure what Viktor could possibly be doing. At least without the rope restraints he might be able to get free a little easier. Viktor wrapped the rope around John's wrists and another rope around his ankles. John still could not figure out what Viktor was attempting to do.

Turning his face toward Viktor, John glared at him. He knew better than to ask Viktor what he was doing. He didn't think that he could physically take anymore corporal punishment.

"On your feet, Mr. Reese!" Viktor ordered.

John was confused. He was still tied to the chair, he thought. He glared harder at Viktor to send the message that what he was asking was ridiculous.

Then Viktor laughed as he pulled at the ropes restraining John to the chair, and they fell to the floor.

John felt stupid. Had he known that the ropes were no longer detaining him, then he would have seized that moment to go after Viktor. He felt as though he was losing his edge.

The ropes around his wrists were so tight that his hands tingled. Then Viktor threw the rope over a beam and pulled it until there was no slack in John's arms. His feet remained flat on the floor. Then Viktor made a call on his cell phone.

"How much longer until you get here?" Viktor asked.

John still could not figure out their plan. He knew that he was now showing signs of dehydration.

As John stood, restrained by the rope, he could feel his calf muscles beginning to tighten. He knew forcing prisoners to stand for long periods of time was a common form of torture in Russia for prisoners of war. While he didn't like the thought of having to stand for long periods of time, he couldn't help but think that he might now have an opportunity to free himself.

A little later, one of the Duncan brothers came in with both Durchenko brothers. They carried with them a large landscape timber. John now knew what Viktor was up to. He was smart enough not to leave John's legs untethered to something.

The men dropped the timber beside John's feet. Viktor looked at his brothers and stated, "Well, finish the job."

John instinctively kicked at them with his ankle-bound feet as they tried to secure his feet to the timber. One kick caught Boris in the eye. He fell back.

Viktor burst out laughing. He snorted as he spoke, "On poluchil odin na vy….Ty slab moy brat!"

Boris became infuriated at John. He hated to be disrespected, especially by some lackey paid by the cartel. Picking up a needle from the table, he thrust it into the back of John's neck. He continued to stick John with the needle until Viktor grew tired of watching John's stoic facial expression.

"Cease!" Viktor yelled at Boris. John Reese was the toughest man Viktor Durchenko had ever had the privilege of torturing.

Fearful that they might discover the syringe in his boot, John ceased kicking at them.

"Ah, Mr. Reese, you are smarter than I thought you were," Viktor said as he put the hammer back down on the table. John sighed a breath of relief because he knew they would go after his toes now that his hands were suspended. The syringe in his boot was his only ace.

Hours lagged on through the night as John continued to be restrained into a standing position. He was well aware that he was suffering from dehydration. As his legs started to give away, Boris or Anton, whoever happened to be guarding him at the time, would strike him with a PVC pipe that Viktor had left on the table. Boris's tortureous treatment had worsened since John blackened his eye, disrespecting him in front of his brothers.

"I think he looks thirsty again," Viktor said as he came through the door with the Duncan brothers and Margaret.

They lowered the rope to allow John to sit again in the chair. This time it was Margaret who filled the baster with vinegar and approached John. Boris and Jarrod grabbed John by his head and pushed him back. Boris opened his mouth with much less effort this time. The brothers recognized that John's strength was lessening. They found that amusing and gratifying.

"Go ahead Margaret," Viktor urged.

Margaret shoved the baster into John's mouth. The vinegar shot down his throat. John gagged and coughed, spitting what he could into the floor. Viktor came forward and slammed John's ring finger with the hammer.

John screamed. He was too tired to guard himself any longer.

"Ty chutʹ ne slomal, moy drug," Viktor said as he paced around John, who was now leaning forward coughing into his chest.

"I am not broken, and I am not your friend," John murmured.

Viktor laughed out loud, hitting John on the back of his head. "Back on his feet!" Viktor commanded.

"No matter what you do to me, I have nothing to say to you," John stoically stated as they pulled the rope, lifting John to his feet. John stood. His calves were sore, but he was determined to survive this situation, too.

Before long, they all left except Boris, whose turn it was to guard their prisoner.

Hours passed and John watched Boris devour a sandwich and a bag of potato chips. He drank Diet Cokes by the bottle one after the other.

"You're quite the contradiction, aren't you?" John scoffed in a low voice, nodding at the empty extra-large bag of chips next to the three empty bottles of Diet Coke.

Boris continued to sit in the desk chair, jabbing at his teeth with a wooden toothpick. He seemed completely unaffected by John's jeering.

John was surprised that Boris was able to remain calm. His body hurt intensely. He knew it wouldn't be long before his body wasn't able to take anymore. He could also feel feel his mind was becoming muddy and dulled. He knew, however, that he eeded to do something very soon to get himself out of this situation. "So, you're the middle brother, right?"

"So?" Boris asked.

Good, he's beginning to engage, John thought. "You're the one with the issues…the loose cannon," John said, speaking as loudly as his body would allow.

Boris stood up but remained at the back.

"Did daddy like Viktor most and mommy like Anton most?" John mocked.

Boris's facial expression changed. "How dare you disrespect me again!" he yelled. "I don't give a shit what Viktor has instructed. I will fight you like a man!"

"Like a man?" John questioned. "Look at me. The field isn't level. What good would killing a man who's tied up be to your ego?"

Boris became infuriated. He rushed forward with the knife. Pausing for an instance, he hacked at the rope holding up John. Once it was cut, John fell to the floor. His body was too sore and weak to hold itself up. But he didn't want Boris to know he wasn't able to stand and fight like a man, so he held up his hands toward Boris. "It would only be fair," he said.

Boris cut his hands free. "Get up on your feet and fight me like a man!" he demanded.

John concentrated hard and pushed against the pain and fatigue to rise to his feet. He stood before Boris and smiled.

Boris charged him like an angry bull, falling into John and then on top of him as they flew onto the concrete floor.

John's head smacked the floor as he landed. Then everything went black for him.

Boris got up off the floor and immediately regretted losing his temper again. Viktor would be angry at him again, but he was sick of Viktor always the one calling the shots and making all the decisions for them. After all, he was a grown man and didn't have to any longer abide by his brother's orders. He left the presumed dead cartel in the floor and went back to the desk and unscrewed another bottle of Diet Coke. Picking up the Ruffles bag and peering inside to find it empty, Boris crumpled it up and flung it into the nearby trashcan.

After nearly an hour later, Boris picked up his cellphone. "Viktor, I have killed the cartel." Boris sat with his head bent forward as Viktor yelled into the phone at him. "Okay, Viktor, I will," he answered. Boris went to John's body that still lay on the concrete floor of the deli's basement. He touched John's neck. "He is cold. There was no way any human could survive," he softly said. He stood up to finish his conversation with Viktor on his cellphone. Viktor's scolding made him thirsty and he turned to see if there was any Diet Coke left on the desk. The last bottle was empty. "Yes…okay…I understand," Boris said. He just wanted their conversation to end.

Then Boris gasped.

John could hear Viktor on the other end continuing to yell. He looked down at Boris with the syringe jutting out of his neck. His eyes were large and glassy cold…the eyes of a dead man.

It was over, John thought. His entire body hurt beyond sanity. His mind was foggy and unable to recall much about who he was and what was happening. He just knew he was in danger and that he needed to flee.

So he headed to the basement door and ran out into the alleyway. It smelled like garbage. The sun was on the verge of hitting the horizon.

The pre-dawn air was penetratingly cold. His three broken fingers were useless in buttoning up his overcoat, so he left it unbuttoned. As he sprinted, his legs felt like he was running through fire. His head was swirling, but his survival instinct told him to keep running. He knew he needed to get as far away from that place as he could. He didn't know why or who would be after him, but he had always depended on his gut to never lead him astray.

He continued running through alleys and back streets as fast as his legs would carry him. He had no idea where he was going. He just ran.

Soon, his body and mind began to feel numb. He knew he needed to hide so he headed for the alley up ahead. White lights continued firing in his eyes. He felt the urge to vomit. He knew his body could take no more. Behind a row of strategically placed garbage bins filled with rotten food and debris, John's legs began giving out.

As he fell, he hit the gravel alleyway and rolled toward the back of one of the garbage bins to get out of the line of sight.

Then his mind went blank.


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER TEN: Monday, January 14, 2013, 12:22 p.m.**

Joan came back to the homeless encampment with her arms full of canned goods and staples. She had hit pay dirt and had actually been able to score a small pre-cooked canned ham and some fresh fruits and vegetables. Usually this time of year, rations were slimmer, but the American people seemed to be more generous, more caring.

As she entered the tent, she saw John sitting up. His head was completely back. Her heart plummeted, causing her stomach to grip in pain. "John!" she screamed.

He slowly pulled his head forward to look at her. His expression showed his confusion at her reaction. "There's a noise up there in the top of the tent that sounds like a very large fly. Please tell me that I haven't completely lost my mind," he said.

"Oh, John! You scared me half to death!" she snorted.

He shot her another confused expression then smiled when he realized that she must have been thinking that he had died.

"Hey," she said, "I think your fever has broken." She pulled off her mittens and laid her hand across his forehead. She paused then put her hand on first the left side of his face and then the right.

He continued staring at her. His mind had been firing numerous memories and recollections all hitting like disjointed video clips. "I know who you are most vividly," he said softly.

Joan put down her groceries and sat beside him. "Yes, you seemed to remember me first," she responded.

"I now remember Jessie…was killed in a car wreck. It was you who took care of me when I was on the run, but I can't remember who I was running from," John said.

"Oh," Joan whispered.

"I can remember the four men and one woman…and vinegar…and breaking my three fingers with a hammer," John said holding his fingers forward and examining them.

"Yes, it appears that whatever you have recently been through, it was five of them…and they took no mercy," Joan answered.

"I don't know why or how I ended up there…except there was an old lady who lay in a bed that I was supposed to keep from getting killed. I don't even know if I accomplished that," John said, looking up to face Joan.

"I don't know," Joan answered.

"Will I ever get back to normal…whatever that was?" John asked, reaching up and rubbing the hair growth on his face.

"I do believe so, John. You're a survivor. You told me the other day that you had too much work to do to die now. So that's why I believe you fight and why you survive some of the worst treatment any man could ever endure. You got too much to do," Joan stated.

"Too much…to do…" John said, allowing his words to trail off.

"I tell you what," Joan announced.

John looked up.

"Since that awful fever has broken, I say let's go to the shelter and get some clean clothes and a warm shower for you. We might even be able to round up a razor to get that face of yours shaven and back to its beautiful self," she sniggered.

"Okay, that sounds great," John replied.

For the first time since he came to her in almost three days, John rose to his feet as he exited her tent. "Oh my God, my legs," he gasped, grabbing his legs with his one good hand and running it up and down to get the muscles to relax. He saw Joan looking at him and became self-conscious. He then stood up straight, trying to mask the pain.

"Why don't you take the arm of an old lady so she won't fall in the snow," Joan said, putting her arm around his back, aware not to touch the bruised places that were most likely still painful.

Together they walked slowly down the concrete steps and emerged into the street below.

John stopped suddenly. "A wagon…a Radio Flyer…but he didn't come this far," he said.

"Yeah, that would be Jimmy. He checked on me a little after you arrived, but you were snoozing hard," Joan said. "Oh yeah, he said to tell you that you own him."

John laughed. "Yeah, I do owe him. He pointed me in your direction."

They slowly walked toward Our Lady of Angels Parish where the homeless could come for a reprieve off the streets for hot food, a warm shower, clean clothes, and some spiritual uplifting. Joan could see John struggling against the deep snow they were navigating through. She held on to his back and intentionally kept her pace very slow. She saw him looking around the streets like he had never seen them before. Then she remembered that maybe they were new to him at that moment. "Are you remembering more things, John?" she asked.

"I know I've been here. I do know the streets. I know this parish," he answered. He then stopped and stared up at a flashing camera on a streetlamp.

"What is it?" Joan asked.

"Finch," John answered. He continued staring up at the camera. Its red light blinked. John remained fixed on it. His breathing got shallower.

"John, come on. Let's get you out of this snow and cold and to the church so you can feel like a new man," Joan said. She lightly nudged him by his shoulder, looking up at the red flashing light of the camera herself.

John began slowly walking forward, continuing to keep his eyes on the camera up above on the streetlight.

"Who is Finch?" Joan asked.

"I can see him in my head…can see him on a park bench and remember not trusting him. Then I see him at a computer with stacks of folders and books around. I just don't know exactly who he is and how he is connected to me," John responded.

"We'll get this figured out, okay?" Joan said, continuing to nudge him forward.

"The machine!" John said loudly.

"What machine?" Joan asked.

"That camera is connected to Finch. It's a machine, but I don't really understand it," John said.

"A camera in a streetlight is a machine connected to a man named Finch," Joan said shaking her head. "That makes sense."

"Are you making fun of me?" John asked, smiling broadly.

"Absolutely not!" Joan laughed as she continued walking slowly toward the church.

John started walking again, catching up to her side.

As they approached the side entrance of the church, John grabbed the door and opened it for Joan.

"Always the gentleman," she smiled.

Joan walked toward the large kitchen and showers where the homeless were welcome at any time to come in off the streets. She walked toward a cardboard box with a large handwritten sign across its front that indicated the items inside were for men. Joan reached in and grabbed a previously used plastic grocery bag filled with a hotel-sized bar of soap, razor, travel-size deodorant, tooth paste and tooth brush, a wash cloth, towel, and socks. She then looked John up and doen for a slit second to reassure his size and reached toward the other side of the box and grabbed a bag with handwritten marker across the front, undergarments size XL. "These will have to do for now," she said as she handed him the bags. "I'll go to the clothes closet for some clean clothes to get you out of that suit," she declared.

John smiled at her. He was ready to shed his war-weary suit.

"Then, we'll see if there's someone here who can wrap your fingers," she said turning to look into the dining room to see which church personnel or parishioners were on duty. "Don't worry, we'll find someone who can take care of 'em for you."

Joan had found a pair of Levis and a long-sleeve black thermal tee shirt that were the perfect size for him. She went and placed the clean, barely-used clothing outside the shower and returned to the dining room to wait for John to come back.

A little later he walked around the corner a new man. He was a beautiful man, she had always thought. She knew that he had endured a lot in his life, but he had always been a gentle soul with her—even though she knew he believed he was a bad person. She didn't understand that but also didn't pry into his personal business to try and figure it out.

He sat down across from her at the table and began glancing around the room. Then he saw the plastic tray Joan was pushing forward in front of him. His stomach clinched with the thought of eating the turkey potpie casserole, salad, chocolate cake, and iced tea.

"Go on, it's really good and fresh," she said.

He paused for a few minutes then picked up the fork and fished out a hunk of turkey from the crusty overcoat of the casserole.

"Good, eh?" she asked.

John wanted to gag but swallowed instead. He weakly smiled at her.

"It's okay. We have all the time in this world," she said.

John continued poking around the food and taking pieces clumsily onto the fork and placing them into his mouth. The taste was growing on him, and he soon picked up his pace a little.

As they continued to sit and eat, John saw the pastor come into the dining room and take off his white canvas apron and hang it on a hook on the wall. He began greeting each person one by one.

John studied the pastor. He touched the dirty and disheveled people, never hesitating once, no matter how raunchy the person looked. He called each one brother or sister and touched their hands and blessed them and prayed with them before moving on to the next person.

He then made his way to Joan and John. "Hello sister Joan," he serenely said. "Brought a brother with you today?" he asked.

"Father Patrick, this is my friend John. He's lost and is trying to find his way home again," Joan said.

"Father," John said, nodding at him.

"May I?" Father Patrick asked, pointing to John's three battered fingers.

John hesitated then held his hand forward to the pastor.

"I do have some medicine I can give you for these burns," he said, pointing to the rope burns around John's wrists. "But your fingers are in pretty rough shape and need to be set right or you'll have permanent damage," the pastor said.

John had recently considered that but wasn't sure what to do at that moment to fix them. "Yes, father," John responded.

"Wait right here…I'll be right back," Father Patrick said as he got up from the table and left the dining room.

"He must be getting something that can help you in the time being," Joan said.

"I know if I go to a hospital that I'd be taking the first step into a whole slew of problems," John said.

"Probably so," Joan agreed.

Father Patrick came back holding a tube of burn gel. He brought with him another man who was holding some splints and bandages. They both sat across the table from John beside Joan.

Without being prompted, John held out his hands. Father Patrick applied the burn gel along the rope burns on both of John's wrists. Then the man with Father Patrick took the splints and enclosed each of his fingers in a splint and wrapped them tightly with bandages. The pain was severe, but John never uttered a sound.

"That's about all I can do for you right now," the man said to John.

"I appreciate that," John answered.

"You really should go to the hospital and have a cast put on them so they will heal properly," he warned.

"Okay," John responded even though he felt pretty certain he wouldn't actually follow through.

As the man got up from the table, he said, "Father, I need to get back to the kitchen. Nice meeting you two." He bowed his head slightly at them as he turned to leave.

"Sister, are you braving this dreadful weather we're having?"

"Why yes, Father, I've been staying warm," Joan stated.

"How about you…John…right?" Father Patrick said, remembering John's name.

John had taken another bite of turkey from the potpie. He swallowed then said, "I haven't been too well lately, so I actually haven't been out in it until now."

Father Patrick was looking John over. "It looks like you've been having a rough time," he said.

Joan stayed quiet. She was hopeful that Father Patrick's questions might trigger some more memories for John.

"To tell you the truth, Father, I can hardly remember anything. I've gotten lost from my life, but Joan is helping me remember and eventually get back there.

Father Patrick looked over at Joan. She was taking the nuts off the top of her chocolate cake with her fingers then licking her fingers to get the chocolate off them.

"You can't remember what has happened to you?" he asked John.

"Just a few bits and pieces," John answered.

"They really did a number on him, father," Joan eagerly stated.

Father Patrick reached his hand up to place it on John's arm. "I hope the pain will lessen soon for you," he said.

John closed his eyes.

"I pray that God will help you find your way back home as soon as possible," the father said in a prayerful tone.

John opened his eyes and said, "Thank you Father."

Father Patrick then turned to Joan. "God sent you to help him find that road home, didn't He sister?"

"Yes, Father, I guess He did," Joan answered.

The father reached forward and took John's right hand. "The patron St. Christopher will look out for you on your travels," Father Patrick said as he put into John's hand a small silver St. Christopher token.

John opened his hand to expose the token that Father Patrick had slipped him. He looked down at the form of the man carrying the Christ child on his shoulder. His eyes revealed that he remembered the story of St. Christopher. "I appreciate this, father," John whispered.

Father Patrick placed his hand on top of John's head for several moments while uttering some inaudible words. Then he turned toward to the older gentleman sitting at the table behind them.

Before he started talking to the old man, Father Patrick turned back to Joan and said, "Sister, you will know the answers. You will know how to get him home. You will know."

Joan looked from the pastor to John. She wasn't sure what to say.

"We'll figure this out, Joan," John said as he clenched the St. Christopher in his hand then inserted it into his jeans pocket.

"Okay, John, we'll figure this out," she answered.


	11. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: Tuesday, January 15, 7:18 a.m.**

Joan awoke in the tent. She could hear John breathing heavily from the other side. She then saw that he was sleeping peacefully. Unzipping the front of her tent, she saw that the sun was just beginning to break the darkness. "I know what I need to do, John," she whispered. She then patted him on his back.

He stirred slightly at her touch.

She then got out of her tent and went to her cart to gather some food for him. She selected several items and took them back into the tent and began writing a note for him on the backside of the cardboard she had previously used as a plate. She then bundled up and left the encampment in pursuit of Finch. She didn't know who he was, how exactly they could find one another, or if she could even trust him. What she did know now was that he was the key to helping John find his way back home.

As she trekked through the icy streets and sidewalks, she questioned her own lucidity because her intended first stop was to the streetlamp and camera where John had stopped the day prior. As she approached the camera, she swallowed hard. "If I were a praying woman," she whispered to herself, "then I would certainly pray right now to make sure I'm doing the right thing."

She stood directly in front of the camera's field of vision. "Finch…I don't know if that's your real name…or your first…or even your last for that matter…but if you can hear me, my name is Joan. John is my friend. I hope he's your friend, too, but I don't know. I don't understand how you could possibly even hear me from this camera up there on the post. This is crazy," she stated. She then looked down at the snow that surrounded her feet. After pausing a few moments, she added, "But if you can hear me, John's lost and needs your help. I'll get him to Our Lady of Angels Parish tonight at dusk. This is crazy," she concluded then turned to go back to the encampment.

She wasn't sure what she would tell John she had done or what she was going to say to get him back to the church that evening. Then a heaviness came over her at the thought of John no longer being there. She had already been through that once, so she knew she could survive the void he would leave in her life. She sat on a bench and watched the people bustle up and down the sidewalks. The sky was a beautiful blue with a few white clouds floating throughout. The bright sunshine caused her to squint as it reflected off the snow. She continued sitting, thinking about John, knowing deep in her heart that he was a good man and hoping she was doing the right thing.

She continued to sit, smelling the sweet aromas of freshly baked scones and bagels. She couldn't remember the last time she had actually eaten something that wasn't considered _day old_. She then began thinking about the life she had run away from…her family…her dead son. He would be forty one now. She wondered what he would be like as an adult. She wondered if he would be like John…quiet and honorable. She wondered what he would look like…if he would be as big in stature as John. She had always tried not to think about her son or the family she had left behind. Those thoughts always made her sad then mad, and she didn't like having that combination of feelings anymore. "Okay, girl," she spoke quietly to herself, "you better get yourself back home to make sure John ate and drank what you left him." She then got up off the bench and headed back to the encampment.

When she returned, she saw that John had finished everything she had left for him and had gone back to sleep. She decided to let him continue to sleep. It was good for him as long as he would wake up to eat and drink, she thought.

Later that evening as she prepared the ham and vegetables and oranges she had recently received, she decided that the direct and honest approach with John was best. "John, hey, it's time for dinner," she said as she pushed against his shoulder to awake him. She had made two plates for them by pulling apart a Styrofoam To-Go container she had found earlier that day. Each of them had ham, a slice of bread, carrots, and an orange. She was running low on water, so gave John the only bottle she had left.

John awoke with the torn apart Styrofoam container close to his nose. He smiled up at her. Rubbing his eyes and face, John then reached out and accepted the makeshift plate, examining the food she had prepared for him.

John's appetite had come back pretty well, she thought to herself. She watched as he ate the ham and bread and carrots. She then reached forward and took his orange and began pulling its peeling off and splitting it into its sections and placing the pieces back on his plate. She studied him as he picked up one piece of orange at a time and placed it into his mouth. He was a prideful man, she reaffirmed to herself. She had always respected that in him. "John, I'm not really sure that it was God who sent me to help you find your way back home as Father Patrick said. Hell, it's been many many a year since I actually even believed that there was a God who could hear me or who even knew I existed," she softly said.

John stopped chewing. He said nothing as he looked at her. What could he possibly say to her at this moment in time, he wondered. He remembered that she had lost her son and had been on the streets for almost as long as she had lived in her family's home during the first half of her life.

"So, I'm asking you to trust me," Joan continued.

"I do," John reassured.

"Okay, then tonight we need to get back to the parish…okay?" she asked.

"Okay," John answered, not asking her why. He did trust her. So, if she wanted him to go back to the church, then he would do as she asked. He thought she probably wanted him to talk some more with Father Patrick.

"Okay, then," Joan answered.

They finished eating, and Joan brought them each a piece of chocolate she had received from the parish the previous day. She pulled the wrapper off both pieces and handed one to John. "Now, you drink all that water…you hear?" she asked, patting him on his arm.

He tipped back the bottle and drank the water as she had instructed.

After they ate, they both went out to the barrel where a neighbor had started a fire. The wind had picked up, making the air feel colder than the actual temperature. As they stood there, Joan watched as the ashes flew around their faces and danced around them.

There was very little conversation among the homeless. They never felt the need to fill the air with meaningless blab. Joan followed some ashes as they floated and landed onto John's coat. She then realized that he hadn't buttoned it. She instinctively reached over and buttoned his coat from top to bottom.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Joan didn't feel the need to respond.

They continued standing there with the community of people in the encampment. No one questioned John's presence. When the fire would get smaller, without verbally communicating, one person would scour around for more newspapers or trash to burn.

As the sun began making its way to the opposite end of where she had spied it that morning, Joan stood up on her toes and spoke softly into John's ear, "It's time to go."

John turned and followed her down the steps. Together they walked back to the church.

As the temperatures lowered, icy spots formed at places that had been cleared during the day. They were careful not to fall as they walked close by each other for balance.

They approached Our Lady of Angels Parish. John began heading to the door they had used the previous day.

"No, this way, John," Joan said as she took him to the front sanctuary doors.

John looked confused but followed her into the sanctuary.

The church was breathtakingly beautiful. They both walked down the center aisle toward the altar where candles were burning. A large ornate oil painting of the Madonna was hanging near the altar. It was beyond beautiful, John thought.

John had gotten tired from their journey in the snow to the church. He sat down on the front pew and closed his eyes.

Joan wasn't sure if he was tired or praying or maybe even both, so she remained quiet to be respectful regardless.

A little later, the sound of wind blowing through the front doors made both John and Joan jump and turn toward the sound.

It was Finch.

At first, neither one said anything as Finch made his way down the aisle toward them.

Joan could see that John was uncertain how to respond. She wasn't sure exactly who this small man was who was walking with a limp toward them—even though she was hopeful it was Finch, the man she had talked to through the streetlamp camera.

"Are you Finch?" Joan finally yelled before he was directly in front of them.

"It's Finch," John said almost immediately.

"John," Finch said as he got closer to them. "I have been very concerned. I've been trying everything and everyone to locate you. The Machine spotted you several times, but then I would lose you. I honestly thought you had been killed."

John wasn't sure exactly how to respond but said softly, "I've been lost."

"Oh my God, you look like you've been through hell," Finch answered.

"I think so," John responded.

Joan then sat down beside John on the front pew. Finch walked closer to them.

"He's better but needs some medical attention," she said to Finch.

"I see that," Finch answered.

"John, you need to go with Finch. He can make sure you get those fingers set right and that you get the proper food and medicine to get all better," she adamently stated to him, putting her hands on both sides of his face. "You have a lot of work left to do in this world," she concluded.

John just stared at her, saying nothing. He could remember bits and pieces of Finch but didn't know if he could trust this man he only remembered as Finch.

Sensing his hesitancy, she put one hand on the back of John's neck. "I know you don't know whether or not you can trust this man, but I think you can." As she spoke those words, she looked up at Finch, seeing his greatly confused facial expression. For his benefit she said to John, "Your memory will keep coming back. You just have to give it time."

"Okay…yes," John answered.

Finch then began to understand. His shocked expression was transparent on his face. "John, you work for me. We are friends…well, sort of. You can trust me," Finch said to John, glancing over to Joan.

John then stood. His body was still in pain, and he had not yet conquered the fatigue.

"You know where I am," Joan said as she smiled up at him.

"Yes," he answered.

"Anytime you need some help…or some shelter…or a home for that matter," Joan said, "you are always welcome." Her eyes remained affixed on John, not betraying her by depicting the deep emotional pain she felt at that moment.

John bent down and kissed Joan on the top of her forehead. He could feel the wave of emotion welling up inside him.

She gripped her eyes tightly closed, still trying hard to hold back her emotions. Clearing her throat, she murmured, "I think it was you who was sent to me, you know?"

John squinted at her, taking in what she meant. Slowly, the corners of his mouth turned upwards as he stared at her.

She smiled back then stated, "Go now...okay? Finch is here, and you're going home." She then looked down toward her feet then back up at him and smiled again, pushing back against the pain.

Reaching his hand down toward her, John placed the St. Christopher token into her mittened hands. "You take this…okay? It's yours now."

Looking down into her hand, Joan was unable to control her emotions. Several tears escaped her eyes as she whispered, "Thank you." She held the little silver token in her palms and studied it. She had never seen a St. Christopher medallion up close.

"He's carrying Christ across the river to safety," John stated.

Joan clinched it tightly in her hand. "I will take good care of it," she whispered.

The sanctity of the moment swaddled the three of them.

As the snow blew against the stained-glass windows, Harold came back to the reality of the world then stated softly to John, "Are you ready to go home?"

"Yes," John serenely answered.

Harold then turned to Joan as she continued to sit on the front pew and asked, "Would you like for me to drop you off so you won't have to trudge through this weather?"

"No thanks," Joan responded. "I have some long overdue business to attend to."

"Okay," Finch answered.

John and Harold started walking down the aisle toward the door.

As he approached the door, John turned around to take one last look at Joan. She was still sitting on the front pew. The altar candles burned brightly, framing her small form as she tranquilly sat on the pew. He breathed in deeply and smiled as he saw Joan's head bow down toward her chest. "Overdue business," John whispered, now understanding what she meant.

Finch heard but made no comment. He then led John out the door and to his car. "It's so good to see you again," he said as he started the car's ignition and pulled out into the street.

They quietly sat in the car for a few minutes.

Then a collage of images of Finch and him throughout the past year and a half fired into John's brain. He then remembered Finch-what Finch had done for him and what they do to help people. He remembered that it was Finch who gave him a sense of real purpose for the first time in his life. He remembered that it was Finch who actually gave him a sense of stability and permanence by giving him a home. He remembered that they were, in fact, friends. Then he breathed in deeply and asked in his usual facetious tone as he smiled at Finch, "Were you worried about me, Finch?"

That was the John Reese that Finch had grown accustomed to. "As a matter of fact I was," Harold answered. "Now, let's get you home and back up on your feet."

"Looks like I have a lot of overdue business myself," John said.

"Yes, John, you do," Finch answered.

Harold continued driving on the snowy and icy roads toward John's apartment on Baxter Street. He was determined to get his friend back home.

The people of New York needed John Reese.

THE END

A/N: Thank you readers who followed my story to the end. It did turn out differently than I had anticipated as I was just wanting a little story where Finch comes to get Reese to take him home, stressing that he now has a home and a place. I really liked the Joan character when she appeared in "Risk," so then I had the opportunity to develop her a little. The spiritual aspect at the end was a little shout out of respect to Jim Caviezel. But anyway, I hope you enjoyed the story and its message. I also hope you'll let me know if you followed this story to the end. Take care. -Jenny


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